


Mersday's Child Has Far to Go

by Cinaed



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 09:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4300170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Túrin and Beleg discover a baby among the remnants of a caravan, things change, mostly for the better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mersday's Child Has Far to Go

**Author's Note:**

> That'll teach me to do a fluff meme on Tumblr. Dear "anon" who asked for Turin/Beleg accidental baby acquisition fic, hope you enjoy five thousand words of cute baby stuff amid, uh, lots of death. 
> 
> The title comes from the traditional nursery rhyme, but with the Middle-Earth/Shire term for Thursday instead. Thanks go out to sath for cheering me on.

By the time the scout had reported back, it was too late. Beleg and Túrin and his men came upon the orc-band pillaging what had once been a caravan. Had the families come seeking sanctuary among Túrin's men? If so, they were beyond his aid. The smell of death was heavy in the air.

Beleg recognised the the furious set of Túrin's mouth beneath his helm; Belthronding sang in Beleg's grip as he slew a dozen orcs in quick succession, opening up a path for Túrin's charge.

The orcs, distracted by their looting, were caught unawares and put up little resistance, for which Beleg was grateful but which seemed to put Túrin in further ill-humour. Túrin took off his helm and scowled at the carnage around them. "There hasn't been enough rain lately," he said, sending up a spray of dirt as he kicked at the dry ground. "We'll need pyres."

"I," Beleg began, and then stopped, listening.

Again it came, a queer sound, almost like an animal's cry. He raised a placating hand as Túrin frowned, and then followed the sound to its source, beneath one of the waggons whose front wheel had been smashed beyond repair. As he knelt, his hand ready upon Anglachel, the sound came again. He bent and looked, and through the dimness saw a small swaddled form and an even smaller fist, which waved weakly. He stood hurriedly.

His expression brought Túrin running.

"What is it?" Túrin asked, and knelt. The sight of the child apparently banished Túrin's usually rigid sense of dignity, for he crawled under the waggon and emerged a moment later with the baby in his arms. He looked down at it. Beleg couldn't read his expression. "I wonder that the wolves did not get him."

Beleg looked to where the wolves lay with arrows in their throats. He said grimly, "A few minutes longer, and they would have."

The child gurgled and waved its hand again.

The tiny fist struck Túrin's jaw, and Beleg was granted one of Túrin's rare smiles. "Well, he has some fight in him," Túrin said. Then he shifted the child in his arms and pulled aside some of the cloth. His expression changed again, and although Beleg still didn't understand the look, he found himself uneasy at the sudden crease in Túrin's brow. " _She_  does."

Beleg studied the girl. She was very young, he supposed, for all the sounds she made came nowhere close to words, and she was so very small. She was old enough to have hair, dark brown like an otter's, but perhaps Edain were born with so much hair. In truth Beleg knew little of children, and even less of babies. Túrin was the youngest Man he had ever known, and he had been halfway to adulthood at their first meeting.

"Where shall we take her?" he wondered, and looked up from the girl to catch a wistful gleam in Túrin's grey eyes. Beleg started. Amazement soured by alarm filled him. "We can't take care of her!"

"Take care of what?" Andróg called. He had been busy among the corpses, checking for life-- or, Beleg thought uncharitably, looking for valuables while Túrin was distracted. When he caught sight of the child Túrin cradled, Andróg shouted with laughter. "Are congratulations in order?"

Túrin didn't look away from Beleg. The child began to fuss, and Túrin smoothed a hand over her hair, her head dwarfed by his large, scarred hand. "Beleg, she needs protection," he said. "She's already lost her family."

At the soft words, Beleg's protest died unsaid. He had no family of his own, his ties to others through love and loyalty, but he knew its importance to Túrin. He had studied the child; now he studied Túrin. Beleg had seen Túrin at his most stubborn, when he’d refused to return to Doriath and when he'd tried to refuse the _lembas_ , but this was something else entirely. There was determination in his face, but something like fear too, as though he worried that Beleg would refuse him. What would he do, if Beleg told him no?  

He didn't have the heart for it, at least not now. Perhaps in time Túrin would see why an outlaw band couldn't rear a child and keep her safe. "I know nothing of children," he said at last, and Túrin sensed his victory, for he smiled.

"And which of you will be the wet nurse?" Andróg asked, faintly mocking, though Túrin seemed oblivious to his tone. He stepped closer, peering at the girl as she hit Túrin's chin again. "She'll need milk soon."

"What do you know of it?" Beleg asked.

Andróg's face shuttered. "My family had more children than sense," he said. He waved a finger in front of the girl's face and pulled it back before she could grab it, ignoring her babbled protest, which sounded suspiciously like no. "She's six or seven months, I'll wager."

Túrin frowned, the worried crease returning to his brow. "What does that mean? We have no milk. Is there anything else we can give her?"

Andróg shrugged. "She might handle some solid food, but she'll need milk. A woman's is best, but a goat’s will do."

As though belatedly realising they were discussing her next meal, the child began to fuss. Softly at first, under her breath, but then her wordless complaints grew louder, until Beleg winced at the force of her wails.

Andróg was smirking now. He raised his voice. "Your orders, my lord? Shall we try to find a woman, or a goat?"

Túrin looked sharply at him then. A strange look passed between them, banishing Andróg's grin. Túrin said over the girl's continued howls, "Ulrad will take some men and go to the nearest settlement and buy a goat from them, and what food she might eat."

Satisfied by Andróg's cowed expression, Beleg nevertheless wished the child would be quiet. The wails made his head ache. "Is there anything we can give her for the time being?"

Andróg laughed without humour. "A crumb of _lembas_ might quiet her." He shrugged. "Or it might kill her."

Alarmed, Túrin turned pale. The child was still making distressed, hitching cries, her face bright red. He held her closer, frowning. His eyes met Beleg's, and Beleg knew his thoughts before he said, "Beleg and I will take the child to the nearest settlement. Go back with Ulrad and the others and tell Mîm to prepare a room for her."

Andróg hesitated, as though he wished to smirk again but didn't quite dare. Still, the mocking look was back in his eyes as he looked at Beleg and said pointedly, "She'll need a room, eventually, but she's too young to sleep on her own. You'll want a cradle."

Now Beleg understood Andróg’s amusement. Always had Andróg looked upon him with distrust, and his relationship with Túrin with resentment. Beleg didn't let him see how this barb had struck home, for Andróg only suspected the deep nature of their friendship and had no proof. Instead he asked again, "Is there nothing we can give her to quiet her? Her wails will bring any nearby orcs down upon our heads."

Túrin's eyes blazed. For a moment he looked as he did on the battlefield, so fierce that even the baby's wails seemed to soften, and she blinked up at him. "They won't touch her," he said.

Beleg gave way to the certainty in his voice. "We will keep her safe," he said, and hoped it wouldn't prove a lie.

 

* * *

 

By the time they returned to Amon Rûdh, the child had a goat, a cradle, and a name. 

"She is a gift," Túrin had said, achingly sincere, and Eruanna she was, if only for the way Túrin constantly smiled in her presence. Beleg could grow to love her for that alone, how worry and sorrow fled Túrin’s face every time he looked at her.

Even now Túrin bent over her cradle and watched as she slept, and Beleg watched him. For a long moment Beleg didn’t speak, not wanting to diminish Túrin’s happiness. But concern outweighed his joy, and at last he touched Túrin’s shoulder.

“Túrin. You truly mean to raise her here?”

Túrin tensed beneath his hand. His expression grew shadowed. “Would you advise me to abandon her?”

Despite himself, Beleg smiled a little. “Only a fool would tell you that. No, I have no wish to separate you.” He hesitated, but they were alone save for Eruanna, sleeping soundly in her cradle. He touched one corner of Túrin’s mouth with gentle fingers, remembering the smile it had held only seconds ago. “She brings you too much joy already.”

To his relief, Túrin closed his eyes and leaned into his hand. His harsh expression eased. “Good. She needs us,” he said, and Beleg didn’t point out that Túrin seemed to need her just as much, if not more. Softly, he added, “I won’t abandon her.”

“Then do not,” Beleg said. “But this is no fit place to raise a child.” He remembered Túrin showing Eruanna to his men, and frowned. “And this is no fit company. Would you have her call these outlaws of yours her uncles?”

“You’re too harsh with them,” Túrin said, as he had so many times before. Frowning, he looked over his shoulder, as though he could see his men through the stone walls. “I will not abandon them either. They’ve fought well against Morgoth for love of me. Perhaps they will fight better with a child to protect.”

“Perhaps,” Beleg said. “But I care more for the child’s safety than their motivation.” He paused, looking down at Eruanna, who wrinkled her nose and kicked her feet. He couldn’t remember being so small and helpless. How long would it be before she could walk and speak? “She’d be safer away from Amon Rûdh.”

“Is there any safe place left? Morgoth’s shadow reaches everywhere.”

“Not everywhere,” Beleg said, knowing that he broached dangerous territory. Still he went on, watching Túrin’s expression darken again. “The queen’s Girdle still holds fast.”

Túrin laughed, sharp enough to cut. He stepped away, to the other side of Eruanna’s cradle, and frowned down at her. “And here we come to it! You’d have me return to Doriath. What shall I say to your king? Bend my knee and beg sanctuary for myself and Eruanna?”

The anger in Túrin’s voice kindled Beleg’s frustration to anger. It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that the lady Morwen had swallowed her pride enough to send Túrin to Doriath for fostering, but he restrained himself. He said curtly, “I wonder that your honour is more important than the child. I hadn’t thought to take her to Menegroth. I thought of Dimbar, where she could be raised among the march-wardens and protected by the queen.” He hesitated, wondering if he pressed too far, and added, “Although your mother and sister might wish to see her, if they’ve come at last to Menegroth in search of you.”   

Túrin flinched at that, as Beleg had thought he might, and the hard glint in his eyes died. Still he frowned, as though weighing his perceived wrongs against the hope of seeing his family once more. At last he said lowly, “I will think on it.”

Beleg thought about arguing, but then Eruanna rolled in her sleep towards his side of the cradle. She came so near enough to the wood that Beleg instinctively reached out and steadied her. At his touch, she opened her eyes and blinked. For a second she seemed to frown, and Beleg braced himself for another crying fit. Then she turned her head a little and rubbed her cheek against his hand.

“She likes you,” Túrin said. He was smiling again, and his eyes were so warm that Beleg flushed beneath his look and wished for a little more privacy.  

“She--” he said, and then grunted in surprise as Eruanna’s mouth closed on his thumb. He had seen the flash of at least one tooth as she’d wailed earlier, but now he felt more, pressing sharply into his skin. It wasn’t painful, but when he tried to tug his hand away, she tightened her jaw. Wryly, he said, “She has fight in her, you said. I hope she learns her friends from her enemies soon, with such a fierce bite.”

Túrin smiled and stroked Eruanna’s cheek until she complained and Beleg could slip his finger free. He caught Beleg’s wrist before he could withdraw his hand, looking and laughing at the small indentations Eruanna’s teeth had made. “A fierce bite indeed!”

Beleg should have continued the argument, pressed Túrin until he agreed that Menegroth was the safest place for Eruanna, but looking at Túrin’s smile, he wished to keep the happiness upon Túrin’s face a while longer. Perhaps, he thought with little hope, Túrin would see the wisdom of his words.

He clasped Túrin’s hand over the cradle and shook his head. Mock-solemn, he said, ”I wonder if you’ll laugh when she bites you. You will have to teach her better manners.” Pretending to reconsider, he added, “Well, perhaps not. You’ve been too long among the outlaws. Perhaps you think biting is a good way to express your displeasure.”

Túrin laughed again, his gaze warm and fond. “Says the elf who prefers the woods over Menegroth. I hope you know it will be a while yet before she can handle a bow.”

Beleg shrugged. “We’ll start small. Perhaps you can convince Mîm to make her a small mace,” he said, and smiled as Túrin leaned forward and kissed him, laughing against his mouth.

 

* * *

 

“Be!” Eruanna said, waking Beleg. When he tried to move, he found himself pinned under Túrin, who had apparently decided that he made for a better covering than the furs. “Bebe!” 

Túrin had kept his breathing even, feigning a deep sleep, but now a repressed laugh betrayed him at Eruanna’s impatient demand. “Go see what she wants, Be,” he said, just as amused by the child’s name for Beleg now as he had been the first time she had said it.

Beleg resisted the urge to roll his eyes, for it was too dark for Túrin to see. “If you call me that again, I’ll tell Ulrad that we don’t need him to take care of Eruanna tomorrow evening,” he warned, standing.

Eruanna had dragged herself to her feet and now clutched the edge of the cradle. Even in the darkness, he could see her wide, pleased smile as he touched her cheek. “Be!” she said, and grabbed for him. “Be!”

“Yes,” Beleg said, resigned, and lifted her out of the cradle as Túrin laughed. Every time he held her, he was surprised by her solid weight. She pressed her face against his neck and sighed contentedly. When Beleg breathed in, she smelled clean. “Were you only saying hello? You might have waited until morning.”

“Be,” she mumbled, which wasn’t an answer at all.

Sound didn’t travel well through these stone walls, but Beleg heard the urgent footfalls early enough to turn towards the door and say, “Someone’s coming,” before Andróg shouted, “Neithan! Orcs approach!”

Beleg was closest to the door. He adjusted Eruanna in his arms and then opened the door, blinking against the sudden light from the corridor’s lamps.

For once Andróg’s customary smirk or glare was nowhere to be found; he barely spared Beleg a glance. “Neithan, there’s an entire company marching on Amon Rûdh. Your orders?”

At any other time Beleg would’ve been impressed by how quickly Túrin shifted from the Túrin who shared his bed to the Túrin who led a band of outlaws, but Eruanna was heavy and unhappy in his arms, alarmed by the unfamiliar harshness in Túrin’s voice as he questioned Andróg.

Plaintively, she said, “Be? Oo-rin?”

Túrin faltered. Even in the dim light, his face was stricken as he looked towards Eruanna. “We must get her away from here,” he said, almost to himself, but Andróg answered him, “Even if we escape Amon Rûdh, there is too much bare land around us. The orcs would catch us in the open and slay us all.”

“Oo-rin!” Eruanna said, wiggling in Beleg’s arms. Her lower lip trembled. “Oo-rin!”

“Hush, hush,” Beleg said, but she ignored him, kicking at him and reaching for Túrin. Over her rising voice, he added, “We could hide her in the caves. I can make my way in the dark deep enough that no orc would find us, and remember the way out again.”

“She won’t keep quiet, not without Neithan,” Andróg said. He smiled without humour. “You will have to go with her, my lord. We may yet hold off the orcs somehow, if we can keep them out of Bar-en-Danwedh.”

Túrin’s protest was lost beneath Eruanna’s scream. Even Túrin and Andróg winced, and Beleg had to close his eyes against her piercing howl. His head rang with the force of her yells. He felt rather than saw Túrin take Eruanna from his arms, her shrieks turning to a sobbing complaint of Túrin’s name.

When Beleg looked, Eruanna was trying to pat Túrin’s anguished face. “No,” she said earnestly, frowning up at him. “No.”

“We’ll bar the door and kill as many orcs as possible,” Andróg said. He laughed harshly. “Perhaps we’ll annoy them enough that they retreat.” He looked towards Beleg at last. Some of the old bitterness returned to his face, but it was muted by grim urgency. ”Keep them safe.”   

“I will,” Beleg said, and then Andróg was gone. He had kept his weapons in Túrin’s room lately, for he spent his nights there more often than not. He gathered them hastily. Belthronding was reassuring against his back, Anglachel heavy against his side. Then he snatched up some of the furs from the bed, for the caves were cold.

Arms full, he turned to watch Túrin struggle to get Eruanna into her sling. She hadn’t calmed from her earlier outburst. Frowning and squirming, she tried to pat Túrin’s face again. “Oo-rin!”

Usually Túrin would calm her with a smile and sometimes even a rare song, but now he was quiet and grave. Eruanna whimpered again, and he flinched. He pressed Eruanna closely to his chest and closed his eyes, resting his chin briefly on her head. “I should go with Andróg,” he said.

Beleg’s heart stopped at the thought of Túrin fighting without him.

“No,” he said, going to where Túrin stood. He touched Túrin’s face until Túrin finally met his eyes. “Túrin, Eruanna needs you.” When Túrin’s expression didn’t ease, Beleg kissed him and whispered, low and forceful, “We both need you.”

“I’m abandoning them,” Túrin said, anguished, and Beleg had no solace for him except another kiss. When they parted, Túrin’s expression was still shadowed, but there was grim resignation there as well. He pressed a kiss to the top of Eruanna’s head and whispered, “Let me get you into your sling, sweetling.”

Beleg led the way through the caves. He couldn’t hear the fighting, yet he knew that somewhere nearby Túrin’s outlaws fought for their lives. For a second his blood turned hot. He longed to take up Belthronding and join the battle. Just as swiftly his fury cooled to match Túrin’s grimness. They would make Morgoth pay for this somehow, he vowed, but tonight Eruanna came first.

Beleg took them as deep into the caves as he dared. Then he stopped, pressing a hand to Túrin’s shoulder. Uncertain of how the sound might carry in these strange caves, he dared not speak. They sat together in the dark, Beleg arranging the furs around them to keep away the cold.

In her sling, Eruanna slept. Beleg didn’t know if she had worn herself out with her earlier weeping or was simply tired, but he was grateful whatever the reason. He leaned against Túrin and kept his hand on Anglachel’s hilt, listening hard though the stones around them swallowed all sound.

The hours passed in silence. Eruanna woke hungry, and Túrin fed her, and then she slept again, as though convinced it was still night. For a while Túrin sat tense and unhappy, but eventually he slept as well, his head heavy upon Beleg’s shoulder.

When a full day had passed, Beleg rose. Eruanna made a questioning sound. He stroked her cheek until she quieted. Then he whispered to Túrin, “I’m going to see if it’s safe.”

Túrin seized his hand, holding it tightly. “Be careful.”

Beleg kissed his hand. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

 

* * *

 

Bar-en-Danwedh was eerily silent as Beleg emerged from the caves. 

The fighting had been fierce. Bodies littered the ground, orcs and Men alike, and the smell of death nearly overwhelmed him. He knelt and checked for each Man’s pulse, but they were long dead. Pity touched him. He had never loved these outlaws, but he had been their companion for Túrin’s sake, and he grieved for Túrin’s loss.

He had just bent over Andróg, the dead man’s face set in a defiant grimace, when he heard someone muttering. He followed the voice until he came to a hidden set of stairs.  

“Where is he?” came the furious snarl above him. “Where is he? They promised!”

Beleg recognised Mîm’s voice as he drew Anglachel and mounted the stairs. He frowned, his emotions complicated tangle. He disliked the petty-dwarf, who loathed him beyond all reason, but Túrin would be pleased by Mîm’s survival.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he found Mîm trying to drag an orc’s corpse off one of the dead outlaws. Beleg stood there, frowning in the early morning light, puzzled. He hadn’t thought Mîm would care enough to aid anyone save for Túrin. Besides, the outlaw was clearly dead, his leg hacked off at the thigh and his heart’s blood long-since dried upon the dirt.

“Neithan will be glad to see you,” Beleg said, approaching.

Mîm whirled towards him. “You,” he hissed, and Beleg wondered at the rage and fear in his face. “No! They--” He turned and fled towards the edge of the summit.

In a flash, Beleg understood. Mîm had betrayed them. He thought of Túrin’s stricken face and all the dead Men who had loved Túrin and died for it, and fury seized him. He crossed the summit in a few quick bounds. When he forced Mîm to face him, the dwarf spat at him. Perhaps Mîm would have said something, pleaded for his life or snarled a death curse, but Anglachel silenced him.

Beleg stood there, breathing hard as his fury dwindled to weary bitterness. He looked down at the petty-dwarf. He considered telling Túrin of Mîm’s treachery, and dismissed the thought. It would only cause Túrin unnecessary pain.

He cleaned and sheathed Anglachel. Then, still weary, he went to see if the orcs had left anything unspoiled in their stores. Eruanna would be getting hungry.  

 

* * *

 

Returning to Túrin and Eruanna, Beleg heard her voice first. She was complaining, for he heard among the string of nonsense words the familiar strain of “No,” and “Oo-rin,” and more and more demandingly, “Be.” Beleg half-covered the lamp so that it would not hurt Túrin and Eruanna’s eyes after a full day in the dark, and called out, “Patience, Eruanna. Hasn’t Túrin been telling you I would return soon?”

When he entered the cave, Eruanna clapped. “Be!” She was in Túrin’s lap, her feet kicking at the furs. As Beleg lowered the lamp, she tried to scoot across the cave floor towards him.

Beleg bent and scooped her into his arms before she could get very far. He was rewarded by Eruanna laughing and kissing his chin. Túrin must have just fed her, for her mouth was sticky and sweet. He held her close, grounded by her weight. “When you learn to walk, little one, we will be in trouble,” he said, and earned another kiss.

Túrin’s face was pale in the lamp’s light, his expression a silent question.

Beleg shook his head. “They fought bravely,” he said, offering what little comfort he could. He stepped close, shifting Eruanna so he could pull Túrin into an embrace.

Túrin sighed and rested his head upon Beleg’s shoulder. “We’ll have to set up pyres,” he said, and Beleg’s heart ached at the grief in Túrin’s voice.

“We should do it soon,” he said. He was quiet for a moment, letting Túrin mourn. Then Eruanna shifted, one tiny foot striking lightly at his side, and he went on. “After that, we must leave. The orcs ruined our stores.”

“And where shall we go?” came the soft query.

Beleg weighed his words with care. “There may be a few camps nearby that the orcs did not discover and destroy, that we could gather together as a new company. Or the men of Brethil would welcome us, perhaps. But my heart longs to see you and Eruanna safe in Dimbar.”

Túrin laughed tiredly. “I believe Morgoth’s curse reaches even there, for I felt its shadow on me as Saeros fell. But I have ignored your advice too often, and look where it has led me. Let me walk backward then, for going forward has proved such little gain.”

For a moment Beleg thought he had misheard. Eruanna gurgled and tugged at his ear, trying to pull it down and gnaw at the tip, but he scarcely noticed. “You mean you will go to Doriath?”

Túrin lifted his head from Beleg’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said, unsmiling. “Let us go to Dimbar.”

Túrin’s grave look couldn’t lessen Beleg’s relief. He thought of his beloved woods, and joyous longing rose up in him. He laughed. The sound rang through the cave, and was echoed by Eruanna’s giggle. Beleg held her aloft and smiled up at her as she kicked her feet. “Did you hear that, little one? We go to Dimbar!”

Eruanna grabbed a fistful of his hair and chewed on it, mumbling happy agreement.

 

* * *

 

Beleg felt the cold less keenly than Eruanna or Túrin, but winter still bit at his cheeks, for he had given his heavy white cloak to Túrin. Occasionally the wind whipped snow into his face. He lifted one arm to ward off the light snow. Behind him, he could hear Eruanna’s complaints and her favourite new word.

“Down!” she demanded, and grumbled as Túrin said, as he had said several times before, “No. It’s cold, sweetling.”

When Beleg turned, he caught Túrin’s wince as though Eruanna had kicked him. Beleg laughed and shook his head. “Let her down. It’s the only way she will learn, and perhaps she will leave your poor belly alone.”

“Her feet will get cold,” Túrin said, frowning, but he knelt, letting Eruanna stand and clutch at his hands.

She took a few wobbling steps towards Beleg. For an instant she looked pleased. Then a furrow began in her forehead and she frowned down at the snow beneath her stockinged feet. “No?” she said, puzzled, and then, more firmly, raising one tiny foot high off the ground, “No!”

As her entire face scrunched up in displeasure, Túrin lifted her up and away from the snow.

Beleg stepped close, chafing her chilled feet between his hands as Eruanna fussed. He pressed a kiss to the bottom of her foot, and laughed again as she kicked at him. “As Túrin told you, little one. Cold.”

“Co,” Eruanna said, and Túrin smiled at the disgust in her voice.

Beleg was pleased to see it, for Túrin had smiled rarely of late, grave and quiet after the fall of Amon Rûdh. When he released Eruanna’s feet, he lingered before Túrin, touching his cold cheek and smiling at him. “See? Lesson learned.”

“Co, Be!” Eruanna complained, as though she thought he could make it stop snowing.

Her face was set in mulish lines so like Túrin’s at his most stubborn that Beleg couldn’t help but laugh, tenderness catching at him. “I’ve no control over the weather, little one, though for your sake I would sing and make it summer,” he said. As he turned, he laughed again in startled joy. He bounded forward, recognising the lightning-marked tree. “Look, here is the border! We come at last to Doriath!”

Túrin made no answer.

When Beleg looked to him, Túrin’s expression was strange. Poised to welcome him back to Doriath, the pleased speech died on Beleg’s lips. Túrin’s dear features were harsh with strain, his grey eyes dark, his broad shoulders bowed under some great weight.

Ever had Túrin’s self-exile seemed an unnatural thing to Beleg, some queer work of Morgoth to rile Túrin’s stubbornness to foolish heights. It seemed to him that Morgoth’s curse now laboured against Túrin once more, poisoning his thoughts as he stood at the brink of safety. He dared not speak, for fear he would say something to tip the balance in Morgoth’s favour.

Beleg reached out his hand and waited.

All was silent, save for Túrin’s harsh breaths. Then Eruanna squirmed and said, “Co, Oo-rin! Co!”

The shadow passed slowly from Túrin’s face. “I have no more control over the weather than Beleg, sweetling.” Then in a few quick strides, as though he too had felt the Black Hand’s touch, he stood before Beleg and clasped his hand tightly. His smile was still strained, but his voice was warm as he added, “But soon we will have a nice fire, and shelter, and good company.”

“Yes,” Beleg said. “All that and more.” Joy lightened his heart. He felt as though nothing could go ill, now that they were within the queen's Girdle. He pressed Túrin’s hand until Túrin bent and touched their foreheads together. Eruanna squirmed and made happy noises between them.

Laughing, uncaring of the snow that fell all around them, Beleg said, “Welcome to Doriath, Lady Eruanna.”  


End file.
